Glass House
by Sekah
Summary: Why didn't Karasu take what he wanted in that hallway? Well, he could only do so much: he'd been tired out by earlier exertions. Pairing: Sakyo/Karasu.


This fic is dedicated to the Gods of Yaoi Crack Pairings. If my diabolical plans come to fruition, this'll spawn a whole Sakyo/Karasu fandom of some sort—this pairing has neither fics nor pictures to its name (barring this one, of course), but it's so mouth-wateringly good it's had me by the ovaries since I thought of it. We have the technology, YYH fandom! We can build it!

That's all, I guess. Enjoy the fic!

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><p>Karasu leered down from his supine position on the windowsill, his legs resting up over the cushioned ledge and his body curved into something vaguely unnatural. He fingered the mask he'd left lying to the side of himself during this daily exercise on power restraint, and made a point to take no notice of the intruder.<p>

Sakyo narrowed his eyes imperceptibly, aware that he had been weighed and measured upon entering the room, and found wanting: harmless, a disposable threat. The soft, sinuous aggravation of being judged as anything less than the danger he was rasped on Sakyo's goodwill, and, when added to the positively lethal boredom he had struggled with for the past few days, he found himself toeing the familiar line of vexation. It was only natural that he drag his subordinate into a similar position.

"Your name is Karasu, isn't it?"

The glass pane of Karasu's focus cracked into a jagged half of what it had been, leaving unusually sharp incisors to grind just a little harder than was necessary, the dry sound of bone on bone apparent even to Sakyo's dull human ears. Karasu clung tenaciously to his relaxed state, refusing to allow it to shatter completely as an irritated expression reformed the peaks of his handsome face.

Before being hailed, Karasu had been watching his beautiful fixation walk past, his mind full of the sultry fantasies he couldn't help but entertain when the boy appeared. Kurama, looking furtively poised and immeasurably disquieted, was in the midst of leaving Karasu's line of sight, his movements just dignified enough to escape being called a rush. Karasu still admired the anxious little smile that quirked at the clowning of his buffoon friend, afforded to Karasu by the angle of Kurama's path and the sparklingly clear window. Kurama undoubtedly felt the eyes that bore into his body, thick with violet lust and honey-coated violation.

A long finger, smooth and pale as cream, traced down the window, the pointed nail etching a thin scar into the thick glass. It let out a shriek of pain that only made him press down harder, the shrill cries exciting his senses and prompting a sweet memory of the last boy he'd killed, a male prostitute who had erstwhile been part of a major transaction of Sakyo's. He looked up from the window he was tormenting and finally glanced lazily over at the man who had entered his thoughts and interrupted him with the same restrained sentence, ice-chipped amethysts fixing on sapphire gems that were just as icy as his own. Karasu watched him, but said nothing, appreciating the lean, sordid face and the dangerous scar that marred it.

"Charmed," Sakyo continued, a smirk pulling on the edges of his lips as he looked impassively at Karasu.

"And you're Sakyo, bane of demons," Karasu sneered, delight glimmering on his face as he allowed his eyes to wander, pleasant suppositions and images of his new target and his employer's employer in endless swathes of degrading and erotic positions filling his mind. Their bodies melded and turned within his fantasies, sometimes together, sometimes with him, sometimes just tossed to the floor like stripped and broken dolls, their battered frames holding the only fear they could acknowledge, fear of pain, as they each faced their own tailored and horrific demise. These were dangerous possibilities to entertain around a man who could ask Toguro to discipline him in any way he pleased—and undoubtedly, his drifting eyes were equally as dangerous—but Karasu was not the type to be dissuaded by danger. He dragged another screech from the glass.

"Is that what they're calling me?" Sakyo murmured, his voice tight with effortlessly contained amusement. One hand slid inside his back pocket, making a rough hump of the tails of his tailor-made suit. The other braced against a side table, allowing Sakyo to lean rakishly to one side as he smiled an equally tight, equally contained little smile and arched his eyebrows up, his eyes half-closed. He looked aloof from his surroundings and distinguished, a prince in his own right, surveying Karasu as one does a peon unworthy of thought. It was a look that put Karasu's teeth on edge, though he maintained his unconcerned façade.

Caught up in his performance, Karasu snorted and swung his legs down, getting gracefully to his feet as he pushed his face into an expression very like that of Sakyo's, though minutely less assured. He looked down his arrogant nose at one of the few truly infamous humans, and thought about the oddity of this strange, beautiful man being dangerous and powerful enough in the ningen-kai to contract his bastard employer and drag him to this place. Somewhere beneath himself Karasu realized that it wouldn't pay to underestimate this human, though none of his outer contemplations acknowledged it.

Not, Karasu added lightly to his more obvious lines of thought, that he regretted coming. A fight was always welcome, so long as it was won, and his sole opponent seemed to be deliciously worthy on too many levels for Karasu to hold a grudge. His eyes flickered, losing focus again as his mind unfolded another fantasy, this time centered on the muddy bomb. Forced to the ground, shackled there by the bomb's claws, the explosions ripped apart the boy's skin and clothing alike, each getting closer and closer to the prize in the middle that Karasu's eyes violated with lusty endurance.

"You shouldn't drift off when someone's talking to you, it's impolite. Is this tête-à-tête so uninteresting? And that little kitsune of Urameshi's, so not?"

Karasu's eyes narrowed dangerously, aware that the innocent quip was meant as a taunt. Sakyo obviously felt secure of his place in this tournament, and didn't seem to understand that Karasu's loyalties belonged to no one but himself. Karasu, determined to make that clear to him, leered again. "Oh? Jealous, Mr. Sakyo? Would you like to be the object of my affections instead?"

"Affections," Sakyo interjected. "How quaint."

Karasu felt a flash of rage—and betrayed absolutely nothing when it, like all strong emotions, centered into a forceful, pleasant tingle in his groin. "Is that what you want, Mr. Sakyo?" He swung his hips and prowled, his whole countenance predatory, up to the man who defied the Gods and plotted to hold this trashed world in thrall, extending delicate fingers to brush a lock of hair from that infuriatingly detached smirk. He longed to crush, to destroy, to tear that smile off of Sakyo's face and replace it with a grimace of humiliation and pain. It was a familiar longing, dulled by the necessity of stemming it before it reached full height. "Do you want me to sweetly destroy you?" His own fantasies came to a head as he, getting well ahead of himself, dragged a claw down Sakyo's scar, watching the frozen stream of Sakyo's eyes close to stop the nail from blinding him. "Or perhaps not. Perhaps you want to sweetly destroy _me?"_

Sakyo's lids lifted, his expression unchanged, and Karasu looked deep into smooth flecks of ice, hating them. Each man was fully aware that the other's motivations were nearly, if not wholly, identical to his own. Karasu was surprised that a primal fear was rising within him at the layers and depths behind the silent judgment and outer amusement. The fear caused the disinterested feeling of arousal he was nursing to increase by exponents, leaping forward to build into a fire he would have to either fan or extinguish, one way or another.

The heightened flames were made of the same joy he felt when he thought of how he would degrade Toguro and his disgusting little sibling after their defeat by his hand, all his fantasies dwelling on the things he'd do to the stone and putty bodies to prove who was master now. It was the same thing he felt when Toguro took him to the training ring and soundly defeated him again and again, or simply beat him, huge, battering ram fists creating a sense of purpose, a painful need to become stronger, to destroy, to nurse the exquisite hatred that thrilled him and fulfilled him, even sexually. It was the same sting of concupiscence that he fought to control while abasing and brutalizing his prey, though this feeling was less strong, less forceful: a kitchen fire instead of a conflagration.

"To destroy you? Oh no, Karasu, you aren't nearly interesting enough for that."

The sneer on Karasu's face melted into a snarl that he didn't bother to hide. "Am I not?"

"No, far from it. There are very few on this island I'd consider worthy of special destruction. You agree, don't you?"

Karasu's eyes were now snake-like slits of violet, set into a bone-white face. "There is one, I think, who could hold my interest."

"The little fox? That's right, you're primarily interested in boys, not men."

"I'm curious as to why you would begin this conversation. Could it be that I was right?" Karasu's voice was slippery with velvet and glee, but underneath that he was clearly fuming. "You _do_ want me; you want to _have_ me, or be had by me. Tell me, are you suicidal?"

Sakyo snorted, looking mildly disappointed. It made Karasu's skin crawl with hatred, which made his groin even more needy. In seconds it would begin to harden, and then Karasu felt he would have lost something, some skirmish in a battle he had only half begun. "You wouldn't risk Toguro's anger reaching the level it would if you hurt me in any way, Karasu. He would make an example out of you to all his men, and you seem too arrogant to willingly subject yourself to that, even at the expense of a smaller dosage of pride. That was a very foolish threat."

Karasu regarded Sakyo coolly, a muscle in his jaw working as he glowered from under heavy lids. "It wasn't a threat. It was, if anything, a proposition."

"Oh?"

"You've begun to interest me, Mr. Sakyo. I wonder what it would feel like to be had by you? A human couldn't possibly have the stamina needed to satisfy me, but I'm interested all the same." The casual way he insulted Sakyo made it abundantly clear that to Karasu, their roles in this little aside had already been ground out, and he, Karasu, was the leader, the one who had manipulated his way to the top.

Sakyo leaned forward and took Karasu's chin between his fingers, pulling him down, looking into the feline slits of eyes as he studied him for a moment. Then, an expression on his face as though he'd just heard an entertaining joke, he flicked his foot between Karasu's legs.

Karasu allowed him this one victory, feeling hands, surprisingly strong and hard for those of a human, turn him in midair and angle his descent. He crashed stomach-first into the coffee table and felt it buckle under his weight, wood and glass splintering as he laughed harshly at the barest feelings of pain, laughing even harder as legs straddled his own and one hand slipped up under his violet-lined coat, midnight tresses blown aside as teeth found purchase in the juncture of his neck.

Karasu was surprised again when Sakyo had enough force to bite until blood ran down his skin in rivulets, reminding Karasu of a certain boy's brilliant mane of sweet red hair. Karasu vocalized his ecstasy with a series of hisses and animalistic moans, all while twirling his fingers in the blood that streamed down from the wound Sakyo's teeth weren't allowing to heal, and then bringing the digits to his mouth to cleanly suckle and lick, his excitement mounting.

He yowled with impulsive laughter as Sakyo handled a piece of glass, apparently oblivious to the way it cut the slim calluses of his hand in half when he put it to use. Sakyo's blood dribbled down the once clean sides, mixing with Karasu's; but, regardless, he brought it to the top of Karasu's coat at the base of his head and cut, straight down, along the spine.

Karasu arched his back, rocking to feel the glass cuts falter into zigzag rents instead of lines in his skin as they stripped him of his jacket. Sakyo's hand fisted in the tip of the coat, black silk crumpled between his fingers as he pulled the extra length to surmount the hem, completely oblivious to his own bright red blood that now coated the shard with liquid. The cloth tore, and the glass was suddenly, delicately stolen from his hands, and the coat shed like a chrysalis, the white, red-striped angles of the moth beneath it fluttering in the harsh industrial light.

Karasu's tongue licked and suckled and probed, ignoring the sting as the edges of the glass cut him—not ignoring, rather, but reveling in the taste of their melded blood combining into a heady and scintillating mixture. He felt truly alive for the first time since his last real kill, and cackled as a leg snaked between his own again, putting momentary pressure on his burning cock before hands flipped him over, landing him stoutly on the broken wood and glass of the decimated coffee table. He wriggled to feel it penetrate his skin, and then grinned as those teeth, anything but as sharp or strong as a demon lover's, but still possessing the will and talent needed to finally create a noticeable bulge in his pants, fixed on a nipple.

There was no gentility in Sakyo's movements, none of the traditional human tenderness or fear of causing pain that Karasu reviled. Sakyo was a forceful lover, barely letting Karasu breathe without biting or sucking or gripping or prodding, seeming to know all the places that Karasu needed to be stroked to send him mindless. Sakyo leaned back, looking omnipotent and indomitable in his security and strength, rocking to put his weight on his heels while his fingernails dug into Karasu's nipples until Karasu tilted his head and moaned softly at the feeling of his blood trickling from the sensitive nubs, dragged by nothing more than shoddy human deposits of calcium. Karasu, in the midst of his rapture, was overcome by a way to make Sakyo squeal, momentarily forgetting who and what the man represented to him and to Toguro.

"Let's turn off the lights, shall we?" Karasu hissed, and then the trace-eye bomb he had created and sent to the ceiling while Sakyo was distracted suddenly detonated, the light bulb exploding into a thousand heated shards that rained down on them both. Sakyo closed his eyes and shielded them with such a level of calm and composure that it was clear he was neither frightened nor taken aback, but merely determined not to become blind. He removed his hand when the last of the falling splinters had bounced or lodged where they would, and spent a moment looking impassively down at Karasu.

Suddenly Sakyo grinned, his first true grin of the night, and said: "Now I wonder. You've gotten yourself into _such,_" he accentuated that word by gripping the bulge of Karasu's cock through his ebony pants and twisting it briskly, "A needy state, but I have yet to receive any pleasure at all. Am I expected to give without any reciprocation?"

Karasu's eyes narrowed again. "What would you have me do?"

Sakyo grinned wider, his eyes narrowing as well, though not as exaggeratedly as Karasu's. "Arouse me, if you can." There was a hint about the 'if you can,' as if it were a real question, as if it were truly up in the air whether Karasu would be able to harden Sakyo up.

Karasu widened his eyes to illustrate his point, and smirked at Sakyo, tilting his neck duly upwards as he arose. The drapes had never been shut, and there was plenty of light, but the glass and polished bits of wood glittered dangerously all around, some of the shards from the destroyed light still hot to the touch. Sakyo gracefully straightened himself to his feet as well, the pants of his suit quickly adjusted in a gesture that only a simpleton would have mistaken for nervous, smearing them with blood. If Karasu was a panther, Sakyo was a lion, a king that sat secure on his throne. He backed up and thumped idly onto the ugly argyle-print couch that stood near the now-broken coffee table of Team Toguro's lounge, seemingly ignorant of the glass that still penetrated his skin, even so far away.

"Ningens," Karasu scoffed lightly, "So slow to achieve arousal, and so quick to lose it. Very well then." He arose to follow Sakyo, blankly refusing to feel unnerved by how little his theatrics and veiled insults were fazing this human. He longed to achieve through brute force what cunning alone could not hope to garner, but Sakyo was right. Toguro, on the rare occasions he felt a real punishment was in order for any one of his men, made them incredibly memorable experiences.

Karasu had been on the wrong side of Toguro's wrath on only three different instances, and, though each one was significantly less damning than incapacitating Sakyo would be, they were each humiliating and painful to the point that the specifics of the first two were extremely vague, and filled with a strange sense of apprehension. The third had involved public nudity, and that was as far as Karasu allowed his mind to go, stopping himself before the shame and hate welled up with enough strength to cause him to lose all of his control and go into a frenzy trying to rid himself of it.

Karasu's lips folded up at the edges as he walked forward, caught up in the game, putting foot in front of foot so slowly, so carefully, his body swaying in such a lazy fashion, that his inhumanity was more clear than it had been since the start of the tournament. His chest was not smooth, but the rivers and valleys of bloodless muscle weren't marred by hair, giving him an alabaster physique that made Sakyo quietly envious. Only the blushing brown nipples and the red lines of blood from the already healed glass-cuts stopped him from achieving the state of a living Romanesque statue, though the tent of his black pants was too large to be fixed to a Roman figurine.

Sakyo, on the other hand, was splayed in a manner that suggested a painting. One hand propped up his head with fingers half uncurled as rivulets of blood dripped down, soaked up by his cuff. One side of his mouth had thinned into a sort-of smile, and he was still dressed in a suit and tie that looked strangely incongruous with the cloth of the couch, which was only a hair above cheap. He waited patiently for Karasu to stop trying to impress him with his supposed composure and might and get around to performing his part in this production.

Karasu reached Sakyo finally, his knees positioning themselves on either side of his employer's lap as his hard length pressed lightly into Sakyo's chest. Karasu was on the cusp of leaning down to devour those clean-shaven lips; but even as his tongue flicked out to taste, he realized that there would be no joy in it, and abstained. The thrill of flashing teeth and tongues came only in terms of domination for Karasu, and this infuriating man would never allow himself to be truly dominated. Overcome with the need to pay Sakyo back for ruining his coat, Karasu extended a glowing claw, and, in a supremely unsubtle, overly-flourished movement, fisted a hand in the top of the suit coat and undershirt and hacked the clothing in half, ripping those halves apart and looking into the pleased expression on Sakyo's face.

Where Karasu had the physique of Eros, wan and beautiful, Sakyo was the perfect Apollo, with a light brush of tan and a generous, but still graceful musculature, accentuated by the slightest touch of hair. A glory trail crept up from the prize still hidden by the suit pants sitting low on his hips, emphasizing the lines of his hipbones as they dipped suggestively below the cloth, drawing Karasu's eyes down into the valley between lean, muscular thighs. Karasu moved back and contorted skillfully to take a nipple into his mouth, kneading the hard thighs suggestively. He used his velvet tongue to rub the tip of that nipple, feeling it harden, and then suddenly sank his canines into skin, piercing the flesh and drawing a thin line of blood. As Sakyo hissed appreciatively, Karasu pulled back to admire the sanguine little trail as it formed a slim brook, skipping down Sakyo's perfectly defined muscles.

Karasu pulled back, standing up and feeling deliciously powerful as he towered above his still-amused, only partially aroused employer. Two hands went down to the fly of Sakyo's pants, fisted, and then ripped in opposite directions. Karasu enjoyed watching the expensive cloth tear along the seams, the buttons doing nothing to stem the break. Fingers hooked, cutting through the last of the cloth, and then Sakyo's member bobbed and stood half-hard in the bright afternoon light, changed to something dangerous and sinister when the sun's rays were reflected off the glass strewn across the room.

"Still not all the way up? Incontinence, maybe?" Karasu taunted.

Sakyo snorted. "Or perhaps you're just not _enough_, Karasu."

Karasu's eyes glittered, reflecting the shards that winked around the room and Sakyo's frozen sapphire gems. "Am I not?"

Without saying another word, Karasu grabbed Sakyo's cock and squeezed, far harder than he should have. Sakyo snarled, and then sighed in a way that could have been taken for beyond his will when the hand let up and began to stroke him. Karasu smirked at the feeling of flesh filling beneath his fingertips, the smooth skin giving way as Sakyo's cock began to erect itself. Under Karasu's skillful caress, Sakyo, a look of hunger overtaking his amusement bit-by-bit, rose quickly—but not _too _quickly—to the challenge. Soon, while one hand fondled his balls (a claw suggestively stroking the spot at the back that often proved so sensual), a full nine inches was up and ready, and Sakyo arose from the couch as well, letting his slacks fall down around his ankles and showing himself as perhaps the only man who could do that and still seem fully in control.

"_How…_" Sakyo asked, "Would you like to do this?"

Karasu swayed lazily. "I assume you wouldn't allow yourself to bottom for me."

Sakyo laughed, a cold, piercing, disturbing laugh that made the perpetual smile on Karasu's unmasked face falter, if only for a second. "No. No, I wouldn't. Which leaves you. Are you game, or shall I call for some of the hotel whores?"

Karasu considered for a second, his eyes traveling from one patch of Sakyo's sinew and skin to another, and then looked into his face, smiling menacingly. "Perhaps I could be persuaded to."

Sakyo's sinister chuckle complimented the hands that reached out to trace a demonic collarbone as it flexed with the movement of muscles and arms. Sakyo snuck his leg between Karasu's knees and, quite simply, pushed. Karasu resisted this time, dragging Sakyo halfway down with him by a clawed grip on his shoulder. The last of the two men's clothes were stripped and discarded, leaving them both to hang in their full glory.

As Karasu, claws now dulled as he snickered, rolled over and pulled a hand towards him, Sakyo busied himself with finding purchase for his teeth and spreading legs longer than his own. Karasu's hair hung off the back of the couch in a sable waterfall, which Sakyo fisted a hand in, using it to arch Karasu's willing back, watching some of the strands bleed to blond under the duress of staying in control of his wild lust. Karasu's smirk widened as he continued dipping and dragging his tongue between sleek, salty digits, torturing himself with the blood that oozed from the cut, still bleeding sluggishly. A finger was taken into his mouth to suckle and taste, and then released with a lascivious pop that traveled right to Sakyo's dripping cock, causing it to throb in wet need.

Karasu braced his feet against the other end of the couch, using them as leverage to lift his hips and teasingly rub his cleft along Sakyo's member, pre-cum dripping down and slicking the valley between two taut mounds. Sakyo hissed, earning a pleased chuckle from Karasu, and then grasped his own shaft, the hand slick with Karasu's saliva and his own blood reaching down to grip his subordinate's needy length as well and trace the oddly soft skin above the bone hardness. Sakyo aligned himself and pressed the blunt head of his dick, radiating waves of heat, into the offered hole.

Karasu's eyes rolled slightly, moans and half-stifled laughter bubbling up from his throat as Sakyo, his feet digging into the harsh weave of the couch and his thighs spread in a powerful kneeling position (all the better to thrust), began to fill Karasu up, centimeter by centimeter, teasing him, and snarling as his foreskin was dragged by the tight muscles of Karasu's entranceway.

"Put it in, human, I can't wait all day," Karasu hummed, his voice lilting and velvety, though he spoke through gritted teeth. He narrowed his eyes further, staring up at his employer with a look of wild abandon that earned Sakyo's disdain.

Sakyo chuckled and obliged, his ass clenching at the effort of filling Karasu to the hilt, grunts leaving his mouth at the feeling of the dry, unlubricated passage surrounding him like a vice, the resistance making him even more aroused. Sparks and jolts shot up his spine as his head lolled forward, a smile blossoming on his face. He began to thrust powerfully, slamming Karasu's head and shoulders into the other side of the couch with each movement and pushing one of Karasu's legs from where it hung until it hooked over the side of the couch, spreading him wide while he was distracted.

Karasu's nails dug along his back and sides, the youkai still possessing the presence of mind to stop himself from scarring or permanently disabling his employer, yet unable to stop himself from marring that dusky skin, crisscrossing it with blood that he contorted to taste, Sakyo focusing everything he had on tearing the body below him in half, over and over again.

The scent of musk filled the air as Sakyo and Karasu both massaged and gripped Karasu's shaft, their hands frantic, warring with each other for the prime spots of flesh. Karasu reached up and placed a bloody thumb to the right of Sakyo's lips, and arched and groaned, his eyes half-lidded, when Sakyo's tongue curled out and consumed all the smear of red and white, his eyebrows raising at the taste of pre-cum, having forgot where that thumb had been moments before. Their bodies melded and pushed, hips entwining, as Sakyo's cock dragged in and out with some difficulty, trying to set a pace to his thrusts.

"Lubricant," Sakyo hissed calmly. "We need some form of lubricant."

"Take your cock out and slick it with your blood, then," Karasu sneered.

"It's already coagulating," was Sakyo's measured reply. "But, if you insist…"

Sakyo yanked out, leaving Karasu narrow-eyed and bereft, and coated his dick with his own blood as casually as if it were oil or lotion. His hand slid from base to tip, smearing red from the partially healed cut in his hand, which he knew would need sterilization and treatment when this little aside was over. He spread his palm along the tip, and then, when a nice burgundy layer had been created, he realigned himself with Karasu's entranceway. Karasu had been watching him prepare himself with an ceaseless smile that didn't subside as Sakyo, not wasting any time, seated himself completely and set up a quick, hard, pulsating rhythm of thrusts that dragged harsh groans and pleased laughter from Karasu's mouth.

The heat and wet built up, searing and shocking them over and over again. Hands and hips and thighs became more desperate and frantic as both the men sought their own fulfillment independent of the other, neither gentle, both brutal in a different way as they thoughtlessly pursued the wonderful explosion of climax. The moment built and built even further, minutes passing with the sound of groans and hisses and the occasional piercing laugh. Sakyo's thrusts became harder and harder, and harder again, as Karasu's hair drained strand-by-strand to a day-glo blond. Finally, Karasu felt the wash of heat, long building, surround him, and came without much more fuss than a few charring explosions against the couch. He writhed cruelly as he clawed apart the upholstery, before arching himself, muscles clenching past endurance, to shoot his seed onto the level planes of his stomach.

Sakyo ravaged the tightened entrance, barely able to get his cock in and out and yet taking immense pleasure from that. In short order, he too was finished, ass clenching and hands gripping as he preformed the last few thrusts with a feral snarl and a slicked-down cock. He shuddered a little, bending over, and then sighed and yanked himself out. His composure already regained, he turned to walk towards his room, leaving Karasu panting on the couch. The door opened coolly right at that moment, the intruders obviously having stood outside to allow the two to finish, revealing a stoic Toguro and a snickering Aniki.

"Toguro, come in here and see to this wound on my palm, would you? And then call the concierge. This place is a mess."

Karasu, still panting, glowered to himself at how nonchalant Sakyo was, sounding completely unwinded as Karasu picked himself up with painful dignity, trying to ignore Aniki's cackling. Toguro smiled wryly, looking completely unperturbed by the whole affair. "As you wish, Mr. Sakyo," he murmured, and then let Aniki down his arm, giving the couch a rueful look. It would have to be reupholstered, and he'd had rather a fondness for the ugly thing. What a shame. He nearly tilted his head back and laughed.

"Karasu—you and I are overdo a training session," Aniki hissed, giggling to himself. "A long, long training session. And I think we should have it now!"

Karasu sneered, making his way towards his room in a regal fashion. _Damn, _he thought._One day I will see that little bastard hung._

The next day, however, was the finals, and he had to rest up. There was a little redhead just dying to see him.

_Fin._


End file.
